Jailbreak
by Blue Sailor
Summary: An alternate version of 12.09 in which Sam uses his newly-resurfaced powers to break them out of prison. Angst, hurt/comfort, and bonus voicemail fix-it. Told in a series of 100-word drabbles.


**A/N:** Many thanks to my awesome friend Crosstown_Rapid for beta-reading this story and putting up with all my neurotic whining about it. This fic went through like fifteen different versions and was given up on at least twice, and she very patiently listened and helped me through all of it.

* * *

 **I.**

Sam dreams of the cellar for weeks, dreams of Magda and the red hatchwork of scars on her back. Of the thorn-wreathed cross rising unsupported towards the ceiling.

Sometimes she speaks, while the shadows twist and writhe at the edges of Sam's vision, sinuous patterns that don't quite match the flickering candlelight.

 _You can do that?_ she says.

 _No,_ Sam answers.

Magda smiles at him in the dark.

 _You can do that._

The dreams always leave Sam with a curious sensation of pressure in his head, and a fizzing energy under his skin, which he does his best to ignore.

 **II.**

If Sam stays still long enough, the shadows start moving.

He does try to keep active, but there's only so much you can do inside a prison cell, and he always returns to his cot eventually. That's when the shadows come crawling towards him, whispering.

He keeps seeing Magda, too, sitting in a corner of his cell, watching him from under the greasy strings of her hair.

The pressure in his head is constant now. Whenever it spikes, the cot rattles and trembles against the wall. It's not long before Sam's making it happen deliberately, just for something to do.

 **III.**

Sam isn't entirely convinced Billie's not another hallucination. He's inclined to ignore her at first, but she's persistent. Inevitable. Like death.

"Big bro wants to make a deal," she drawls. "I spring both of you, and then one pops off permanently." A smile, cold as the grave. "You in?"

Sam's almost tempted if it means seeing Dean again. But if he agrees to this, he'll lose Dean all the same, one way or the other. And that's a deal breaker.

"There has to be another way," he says.

Billie folds her arms, unimpressed.

In the dark, Magda smiles at him.

 **IV.**

The accommodations aren't very comfortable, but this prison's state-of-the-art. Motion sensors, handprint scanners, reinforced steel doors.

Sam just blasts right through all of it, the power erupting from him with barely a thought.

Once they're outside he bends the gates shut across the driveway to slow the feds down.

"We gotta talk about this," Dean says, as they head for the woods.

Sam stumbles slightly at the tone; it's too close to what it was when Sam was drinking demon blood, too close to the voice that growled _freak_ and _vampire_ into his ear.

"Later," he says, and starts running.

 **V.**

"So, your mojo's back," says Dean, while they're laying down tripwire in the cabin.

The place makes Sam uncomfortable. It's too enclosed, and he doesn't like the way the shadows are gathering in Dean's eye sockets and at the corners of his mouth.

"This just start while we were inside?" Dean asks.

Sam doesn't get why he's so intent on discussing it, considering what happened the last time.

"Come on," Dean presses. "Talk to me."

"Okay, sure, Dean," Sam snaps finally. "Let's talk about how you thought making a deal with Billie was a good idea."

That shuts him up.

 **VI.**

Not using the power is like playing _don't think about the game_ ; inevitably, Sam finds himself levitating books off shelves or opening doors without touching them, and by then it's already too late.

He cringes whenever it happens in front of Dean.

"I'm not drinking demon blood, or anything," Sam says, the hundredth time he catches Dean staring.

"Didn't say you were," says Dean.

But there's a look of intense relief on his face, which means he was thinking it.

Sam walks out, slams his bedroom door. There's a bang as all the other doors in the hallway slam too.

 **VII.**

Sam dreams of Magda and the scars on her back and the cross floating up to the ceiling. He dreams of Dean's voice growling _freak_ and _vampire_ into his ear. Of shadows that heave and snarl around him.

 _You're not you anymore,_ Dean whispers.

Magda kneels, clutching the scourge. She beats herself, nodding along, and the pressure in Sam's head seems to shift.

 _The power made me who I am,_ he says.

The cellar shudders with the force of an earthquake. Magda looks up, drops the scourge to the floor.

 _The walls came tumbling down,_ she sings. And she smiles.

 **VIII.**

Sam keeps that smile with him while he goes to find Dean.

"It started after Magda," he explains. "Talking to her, it shook something loose."

"And you didn't tell me," Dean grumbles, half-asleep. Dimly, Sam realizes it's the middle of the night.

"I was afraid," he mutters. "Thought you might decide to kill me again, or—"

"Whoa, hey," Dean interrupts, suddenly much more alert. "When did I _ever_ decide that?"

"You called me. Before Lilith." Sam swallows hard. "I got your voicemail."

Dean looks at him like he just announced he's from a parallel universe. "What are you talking about?"

 **IX.**

"It wasn't me," Dean says, his voice muffled against Sam's shoulder.

"It sounded like you."

"It wasn't."

Sam almost feels worse knowing that it was a trick, and he fell for it. Almost, except for how Dean's arms are locked tight around him, and his hand is twisting in Sam's shirt, and his face is tucked into the crook of Sam's neck.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbles, all the same.

"Me too," says Dean.

After a while, Sam notices Dean's bed is hovering three feet above the floor.

He doesn't try to put it down, though. He just holds on tighter.

 **X.**

Once Sam stops dreaming about Magda, he realizes that he never actually heard from her after they left Mason City. That worries him slightly, but he hopes it means she's faring well in California; she deserves lots of peace and open space and sunshine.

Every night before bed he casts his thoughts out to her, hoping she'll hear him.

 _You were right,_ he always tells her. _I_ can _do that._

Then he waits for a while afterward, listening, in case she replies. And maybe it's just because he's not that kind of psychic, but all he ever hears is silence.


End file.
